Clueless
by frozen-delight
Summary: There's only so much PB & J and books can teach you. [Cas!POV coda to 10x10 "The Hunter Games" with Cas/Dean pre-slash, Sam/Cas pre-slash, and a hint of Sam/Dean. Angst, UST, pining and unhappiness all around.]


**Title:** Clueless  
**Author:** frozen_delight  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** Cas/Dean pre-slash, Sam/Cas pre-slash, Sam/Dean (ambiguous or implied)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** Angst, UST, pining and general unhappiness.  
**Spoilers:** Up to and including 10x10 "The Hunter Games".  
**Word count:** ~ 2000  
**Beta**: Many, many thanks to the lovely misplaced_ad for her thoughtful and enthusiastic feedback. All remaining mistakes are mine of course.  
**Summary:** _There's only so much PB &amp; J and books can teach you. _Cas!POV coda to 10x10 "The Hunter Games".

**A/N:** This story was inspired by misplaced_ad's fantastic Sastiel fic Crusts. In case you haven't read it, please do, it's amazing. Also, some aspects of the following story might make a bit more sense then.

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**Clueless**

In hindsight, Cas was ready to admit that when he was first stationed on earth his interactions with humans left him confused: He was a pretty clueless angel back then. Now, thanks to years of hanging out and saving the world with Sam and Dean Winchester, temporarily losing his grace and stealing another angel's, as well as Metatron's knowledgeable touch to his forehead, he was anything but. And yet if anything, the more he understood about human life, the more confusing it all became.

Coming back to the bunker after his little run-in with Claire, he spotted Sam and Dean in the kitchen and the sight of them made him feel inexplicably wary. Maybe it was the way they stood around the table rather than sitting at it. Maybe it was the way Dean's fingers tapped on the wooden surface. Or maybe it was the way Sam set down his cup a touch too forcefully. Being human and inheriting all of Metatron's bookish knowledge had taught Cas that hidden meaning lay everywhere, even in the most ordinary, fleeting encounters. A furtive look, a secret smile, a casual brush of hands could dethrone kings and turn beggars into princes. Thus Cas was able to tell that this little domestic display with its undercurrent of tension meant something. He just wasn't sure what.

"Cas, buddy," Dean greeted him with a firm clap to his shoulder, before opening one of the cupboards and pulling out a bag of noodles, a net of onions and a selection of spices. A moment later he added various other edibles from the fridge to the pile. "I'm cooking tonight." He was still looking at Cas, but Cas thought that the words must be intended for Sam.

There was an exasperated edge to Sam's smile when he excused himself, and then Cas was left alone with Dean, watching him chop up tomatoes with fierce precision.

"What are you doing here, Cas? I thought you wanted to play house with Claire." Dean's tone was gruff and filled Cas with the strong desire to take the knife out of his hands and give him a hug.

Putting together what he'd observed during his short meeting with Claire and what Sam had told him on the phone, he now knew that getting Dean to contact Claire had been a terrible idea. His persuasive formula of _one extremely messed-up person + one extremely messed-up person = two infinitely less messed-up people_ had backfired spectacularly.

"Listen, Dean, I'm sorry… Sam told me about your meeting with Claire and that you were back home now –" Hearing Dean's wry chuckle made him pause. "– What is it?"

Dean shrugged and turned on the stove. "Nothing. Just Sam calling this place home, I guess."

"It's reasonable, since you both live here. And you say so too."

A quick laugh escaped Dean, indicating that Cas had said something he considered adorably stupid. As always, it left Cas unsure if he should be flustered or offended, if he should feel pleased or disappointed that he heard it less often these days, and if he should avoid that laugh like the plague or chase it like a precious rainbow.

All too soon all traces of mirth disappeared from Dean's face and he explained with a sullen undertone, "He didn't always. Because – quote – he never got the crusts cut off his PB &amp; J."

"What's PB &amp; J got to do with – and why would anyone cut off the crusts?"

The intensity in Dean's gaze surprised Cas. "Because that's how you show love."

Cas wondered if Dean was still talking about bread crusts. Metatron had not only given Cas his encyclopedic knowledge, he'd also granted him his more candid interpretations of the classics, allowing Cas to understand that when a sly, charismatic redhead in a priest's costume offers a handsome young man a cigar in the dark interior of a carriage, much more was on the table than a simple cigar.

It wasn't unreasonable to assume that Dean wasn't only discussing sandwich crusts, especially given how dejected he sounded. "Dean," Cas said, hoping to offer comfort, "I'm sure you've shown Sam you love him in plenty of other ways."

Dean's face twisted so fast it almost gave Cas a whiplash. It was one of those blink-and-you'll-miss-it moments that, in most of the books Metatron had acquainted him with, would change the course of the rest of the story. This time there was little doubt in Cas's head what Metatron's marginalia would say. The implications made him profoundly uncomfortable.

"Yeah," Dean grunted a beat too late and turned back to his cooking.

Staring at the rigid line of Dean's shoulders, Cas felt his discomfort melt away into pity. "I never tried it when I was human," he said to divert the tension. "Cutting off the crusts."

From his place in front of the stove Dean sent him a heartbreaking little smile. "Well, you had a pretty shitty time when you were human, right?"

"It wasn't all bad." He thought of April. At least in part that was a good memory.

Dean grimaced. Maybe he was thinking of April too. No, Cas corrected himself. Dean was probably thinking of the time he'd kicked Cas out of the bunker. Watching Dean rummage for something in the cupboard on his left, Cas wished that his friend wouldn't still feel bad about his actions and mused, trying to distract him, "I never really thought of Heaven as home."

Dean looked at him, shrewd and sympathetic. "Yeah, the place upstairs sucks alright."

"But I don't feel homeless," Cas continued. "Not when I'm with you –"

Dean banged the door of the cupboard shut a little too loudly, making Cas jump. The whole cupboard swayed with the force of the motion, and from somewhere a loose screw dropped to the ground, rolling over the floor with a grating jangle. Dean picked it up and briefly disappeared into the map room, before returning a minute later with empty hands and a pissed frown. "No idea where that screwdriver's gotten to again."

Cas knew that Sam had done a lot of renovating around the bunker lately. He thought of the door to the dungeon he'd blasted to splinters the previous day, and wondered if he should apologize or offer to help with the repairs, when, instead of returning to his place by the stove, Dean leaned against the counter in front of him in a casual pose, his legs spread lightly. He no longer looked pissed. There was a serious expression in his eyes, but it wasn't unkind, and when Dean tilted his head, Cas caught sight of a flare of heat behind them.

If he were still human, Cas thought, the back of his neck would begin to prickle at this point and his palms would get sweaty. Since he wasn't, he didn't experience a bodily reaction to the display in front of him, but the accompanying emotions appeared all the same: a bright flutter of hope and nerves. Because this – it had to mean something.

Dean's tongue darted out to lick across his plush lower lip and Cas felt the familiar push and pull inside him, the longing to move closer, the desire to touch, and to –

"Ask Sam where he's put the screwdriver, would you?" Dean straightened and turned back to the pot on the stove.

Cas felt dismissed, and somewhat hurt. "Can't it wait?"

"What's the problem? You talk to him all the time." Dean's eyebrows danced, light and teasing, but somehow the words still managed to sound ugly when he uttered them.

For all that Dean liked to pretend he was a simple guy, he really wasn't. Cas almost wished that he were still naïve enough to buy the pretense, attribute Dean's erratic behavior to his near manic obsession with keeping his kitchen clean, and not to realize that Dean had placed him in an impossible situation where no matter what Cas did, Dean would end up being upset with him.

He chose what he rated as the lesser evil, complying with the request Dean had put in words.

He searched for Sam in the library, in the map room, in the dungeon, even in the showers, all to no avail, until he eventually tried his luck with Sam's bedroom.

"Come in," Sam told him, and Cas did, opening the door with caution. He'd never been in Sam's room before. It was pristine save for two Busty Asian Beauties posters on the wall behind his bed.

"Dean put them up," Sam explained in answer to Cas's stare. Cas didn't ask why he hadn't taken them down.

Sam was sitting on the bed, a photograph in his hands. When Cas plopped down beside him on the mattress, Sam showed it to him. It featured the Winchester brothers sitting in Bobby Singer's house, beers in their hands, laughing. Cas hadn't been present when the picture was taken, but he could tell that it captured a moment shortly after Sam got his soul back. Cas thought he understood why Sam was looking at this particular photograph, and it made him sad.

"Dean wants to know where you've put the screwdriver," he said gently, eliciting an enigmatic frown from Sam. Even though he'd known Sam for a long time, Cas still found it difficult to read him. Sam was always so quiet and reserved, keeping his emotions bottled up inside, and when they briefly flickered over his face, there were usually too many for Cas to track and determine them all. So before he could even begin to fathom what Sam's expression meant, he'd already smoothed it out. If he were to wager a guess, Cas would have said that irritation featured quite strongly, to the point that _Dean can go screw himself _was heavily implied; but he couldn't be sure.

"Think I left it in the electrical room," Sam replied a little stiffly.

Feeling that he'd bitten off more than he could chew with that accursed symbol-laden screwdriver, Cas hastily changed the topic. "Don't you think that those heels are inappropriate?" he asked, pointing at the left poster.

Sam chuckled gratefully and relaxed. "The whole picture's inappropriate." Cas laughed along and scooted a little closer.

They proceeded to talk about means to track down Cain, but Sam seemed distracted and Cas didn't pay too much attention either. The situation reminded him of the previous summer when they'd been frantically looking for Dean. They had sat next to each other then, although not in Sam's room, and more often than not Cas had ended up holding Sam's hand while they discussed the next steps. It had been soothing, comfortable, like his human memories of a good warm shower. It had even made him forget that his grace was burning out.

Cas looked at Sam and thought that he would really like to hold Sam's hand again. Sam gazed back at him with a bashful smile and a glint of dimples, and Cas thought that Sam might actually let him.

Before Cas could make a move, the door banged open. "There you are," Dean grunted from the doorway, squinting at them. There was a small crease between his brows, as though he hadn't thought Cas would actually go after Sam. "Dinner's ready."

At that moment, Cas sincerely missed the simpler days when he could just blink and say cluelessly, "I don't eat." But Dean's face was stormy, and Sam's smile heavy with guilt and concern, and nothing was simple at all.

"I need to go look for Cain," Cas announced, jumping up from the bed, and the sudden awareness that this was a very human way of communicating and a cowardly one at that only hastened his steps.

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